


(i'm starting with) the man in the mirror

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Hotel Artemis (2018), Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Enthusiastic Consent, Hand Jobs, I'm really sorry about this, M/M, acapulco is technically an OC because. you know. the movie hasn't come out yet, pacific rim (2013) except charlie day with a pornstache inexplicably deals kaiju parts, two bottoms making it work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-08 18:30:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14699832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: In which Dr. Newton Geiszler needs a kaiju brain and Acapulco doesn't just deal arms. (And, naturally, they bang.)





	(i'm starting with) the man in the mirror

**Author's Note:**

> me: how many levels of charlie day bullshit are you on  
> you: idk like four or five my guy  
> me: watch this
> 
> inspired by [this](https://twitter.com/emopulco/status/996423837158961152)

Newt’s got some narcissistic tendencies, he’ll admit it, always knew that if the opportunity arose he would _definitely_ bang his own clone, but he’s had a terrible day and his left eye hurts like a bitch and it’s raining and he has about two hours to find himself a freakin’ kaiju brain before Hermann’s double event theory is inevitably proved correct so he, frankly, does not have the time for this particular crisis right now. But it’s here anyway, it’s coming at him full force, and it’s 5’7” and in a barely-buttoned silk shirt dotted with little flowers and it has Newt’s _face_ , with a few major alterations in the facial hair department, and New can’t help but think consider—

And then it’s drawing a very large, very sharp-looking knife on him.

“Wait!” Newt yelps, flinging his arms up instinctively and very nearly backing up into a large, murky-yellowish tank. “Stacker Pentecost sent me!”

The man with Newt’s face looks at him long and hard before he lowers his knife. Newt doesn’t move an inch until he’s tucked it away safely in a little leather holster at his waist. “Awesome,” Newt says, voice shaking and heart pounding. “Awesome. So you—you’re Acapulco?” Pentecost hadn’t given him much in the way of details, other than instructions to get a kaiju brain, a little hidden message on a card, and a name.

The man—presumably Acapulco—gives a little jerk of his head. He’s got a long, nasty scar running jagged down the left side of his face. “To Pentecost I am,” Acapulco says, which Newt decides is shady-black-market-dealer for 'yes'. “Acapulco’s a nice place. Spent a fun summer there once.” He’s already lost interest in the conversation, inspecting the contents of a wooden crate two of his employees—minions? minions—have just brought in and arguing in low voices with them. He doesn’t seem to care that Newt could be his twin. Or, frankly, that Newt’s even there.

Newt clears his throat.

“Yes?” Acapulco says. He looks up slowly and fixes Newt with a bored look; the scar, Newt realizes, extends across his pupil. Nearly splits it in half. It sends a chill down his spine. “Pentecost sent me,” Newt repeats, lamely.

“Yeah, but for what?” Acapulco says. He closes the lid of the crate and waves his minions off to the back. “Guns? Cocaine?” He gives Newt another once-over. “Bone powder?”

“Why does everyone keep— _no_.” Newt huffs in frustration. “No, I don’t need any _bone powder_. That shit’s completely useless, by the way. Just so you know.” Not that Newt’s tested it—okay, he _tried_ to once, but Hermann came into the lab at precisely the wrong moment and shouted his head off for what felt like an hour and made Newt dump it all down the sink while he watched. In retrospect, Newt probably shouldn’t have tried to snort it off Hermann’s desk.

Acapulco shrugs. “Works just fine for me,” he says, and leers at Newt.

Newt feels his face heat up and something spark low in him but he squashes it down quickly. Now is not the time, and especially not when it's for someone like Acapulco. Why the hell does the Marshal remotely trust a sleazeball like this guy? He looks like a seventies porno on legs. “I thought you dealt _kaiju parts_ ,” Newt says.

“I deal a lot of things,” Acapulco says, cryptically, and just like that, he’s back to business. “Listen, hot shot. I don’t have all day, so if you could—”

“Kaiju brain,” Newt blurts out. “I need a kaiju brain.”

Acapulco narrows his eyes. A few of his workers look up in their direction. He turns, motions Newt forward. “Let’s talk in private.”

_Private_ turns out to be Acapulco’s back office. It’s completely at odds with the rest of the shop’s decor, yet furnished exactly the way Newt expected it to be, like some set from an old television show: wood paneling, a massive leather loveseat, orange shag carpeting, a small minibar stocked with various expensive-looking whiskeys and brandy. Newt takes a seat on the loveseat while Acapulco fixes himself a whiskey. “You want one?” he says, back to Newt. He shed his garishly-patterned suit coat the second he shut the door.

“Um. _No_ ,” Newt says. What he _wants_ is a kaiju brain so he can get his ass back to the Shatterdome before there’s another kaiju attack and Newt has to hunker down in some weak civilian shelter. He bounces his leg impatiently; Acapulco either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because he takes his sweet time finishing his drink before settling in next to Newt.

“Why do you need a kaiju brain?” he says. His eyes are boring into Newt’s, and Newt fidgets uncomfortably, unsure if it’s from being so close to Acapulco’s busted pupil or for fear that Acapulco will notice _his_ and piece two and two together. Maybe it’s just from being so close to Acapulco in general, with the lighting so low. He is _not_ that narcissistic, Newt reminds himself, as he watches Acapulco unwind the silk purple scarf from around his neck and bear the column of his throat. Newt swallows.

“Uh,” he says, and forces himself to still his leg, “that’s—between me and Marshal Pentecost.”

Acapulco looks at him long and hard. And then he nods. “Sure,” he says.

Newt blinks. He—was not expecting that. “Sure?”

“Yeah, why not.” Acapulco shrugs again. “I don’t have any use for that shit. Just junks up the storeroom and makes everything stink like cat piss.” He finishes his whiskey, stretches to set the glass back on the minibar. His shirt slides open just a fraction more with the movement and gives Newt a better view of his chest. “Next kaiju attack, I’ll have my little team wrap it up nicely for you. I owe Stacker a favor anyway.”

Newt gapes at him. “Just like that?” he says. That was—ridiculously easy. The whole deal with the private office, and the drinks, and Acapulco’s frequent long, lingering looks—well, Newt misread several signs along the way to be a lot more nefarious than they actually were. Not that Acapulco isn’t still a sleazy son of a bitch. Still: he can’t help but push. “You really don’t want to know why I need it?”

“Buddy,” Acapulco says, “you could go home and fuck it for all I care.”

“Oh.” Newt grins. “Cool.” After a moment, he adds, “I’m, uh, not gonna do that. Just so we’re clear.”

Acapulco holds up a hand to halt him. “Seriously. I do not give a _single_ shit,” he says, “about what you do with this brain. Customer confidentiality, plausible deniability for me if you do something stupid, et cetera et cetera. We settled?” Newt nods. “ _Nice_ ,” Acapulco says. He leans against the side of the sofa, arms behind his head. The leer is back, now, but Newt finds he doesn’t mind it as much this time. Pornstache and all. “Now that that’s out of the way, wanna fuck?”

Newt is starkly aware two paths have been opened up to him here. One, update Pentecost and then go back to the Shatterdome or find a shelter and wait for Acapulco's signal like the good PPDC employee he pretends to be; two, stay and fulfill his lifelong curiosity as to what it would be like to fuck a clone of himself.

It's the end of the world as we know it, after all. “God, yeah," Newt says.

It takes a little maneuvering and back-and-forth at first; Acapulco seems as reticent as Newt to take control, so they don’t do much more than awkwardly press their lips together and pull at each other’s clothing until, finally, Newt wraps his arms around Acapulco’s neck and just _tugs_ him down on top of him. He ends up boxed in beneath Acapulco on the loveseat, blood-stained and grimy button-up untucked and opened, corduroys and boxers tugged down, as Acapulco straddles him. Acapulco’s undone the one button holding his silk shirt closed and shucked off his expensive suit slacks and underwear—also silk, it turns out—entirely. It should be weird, it should be narcissistic, but Acapulco kisses him messily and wraps his hand around their dicks and jerks them off, and Newt writhes against the leather.

“Go harder,” he gasps, bucking up into Acapulco’s grasp, and Acapulco speeds his strokes, breaths coming out in harsh grunts. Newt’s eyelids feel heavy with pleasure, but he can’t bring himself to look away from Acapulco—Acapulco's eyes are screwed up tight in concentration, his face is flushed, his teeth are digging into his bottom lip, his chest is heaving. Newt wonders if this is what _he_ looks like when he’s fucking, if these are the kinds of noises he makes. The thought is intensely erotic, almost overwhelming, and he pulls Acapulco down by the lapels of his floral shirt to kiss him again. He runs his tongue across the seam of Acapulco’s lips until he parts them, slips it inside to brush against Acapulco’s, and Acapulco moans, twists his wrist around them.

Acapulco smells like sweat and musk and cheap cologne masquerading as something expensive and his mustache tickles Newt’s upper lip. It’s not unpleasant, actually, Newt finds, as he fucks into Acapulco’s mouth and fist in tandem and runs his hands up and down the bare skin of Acapulco’s chest, and Acapulco’s moans send vibrations through him. _Please_ , Newt thinks as Acapulco rocks his hips with Newt’s, slides his fingers through precome, _come on, I wanna see what I look like when I—_ and Acapulco arches his back and comes on Newt’s chest with a deep groan and Newt thinks _oh, fuck,_ and follows.

 

Acapulco sees him to the exit with with a hand on his lower back and instructions to come back immediately after the next kaiju is felled. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he declares, voice laden with something meant only for Newt.

Newt agrees.

**Author's Note:**

> come shame me on twitter at hermanngaylieb or tumblr at hermannsthumb


End file.
